Chapter Text
Starscream remembered the culture shock he experienced when he moved to Iacon from Vos for the first time.
He’d been eager and brash and a bit more than stupid, but so were most young mecha when they were trying to prove themselves. He wanted to be a scientist, and all the great scientists graduated from none other than the famous Science Academy of Iacon, so that was where he wanted to go.
Bad idea overall. -1/10 Would Not Recommend.
Not the point. See, while he had gone to Iacon for a higher education, he’d been unwittingly forced to interact with the general populace of Iacon by virtue of, unfortunately, living there. Besides the rampant functionalism and jeers and comments and catcalls, there persisted a constant air of. . . he wanted to say isolation, but that didn’t feel like the right word for it (so much for that higher education).
Of course, the prissy brats of Iacon and its school didn’t like him, so he was often alone (save for a certain shuttle he refused to acknowledge), but it was more than that; the Iaconian brats didn’t even seem to like each other. At least, not in the way he was used to.
Vos was, if anything, an extremely tight-knit polity. For one thing, it wasn’t very big—you could fly the span of it in hardly two cycles if you really wanted to. With how family units and trines were formed, chances were that you knew a good ten-to-fifteen mecha in your immediate circle, even discounting friendships and the like. Everyone knew someone who knew someone who knew someone, and they interacted with one another. They weren’t stroking anyone’s wings in public or anything, but casual touches and field brushes were all very common.
(The community of connection became almost obsessive, in the end. Do not leave. Stay only in Vos. Trust only those within Vos. Outsiders seek only to harm us. The burgeoning war was not kind to the polity. Neither were the bombs.)
Young Starscream had felt almost out of place there. He was not particularly physically affectionate, and certainly not so in public. A stain on his public image, as one of the heirs of the Winglord. ‘Cold’ the press called him. ‘Detached. Antisocial.’
He had readily agreed with them, if only to keep them from coming up with worse, but after his first week in the wonderful, beautiful bronze-and-gold holy city of Iacon, all he could think was, ‘They’d never call me antisocial again if they saw how these mecha act.’
Even in the busy commons or packed mid-cycle hallways, the Iaconians of the Academy weaved around each other as though magnetically repelled, scowling at anyone who did happen to bump into them. Groups of friends kept their distance, touch relegated to polite servo taps or maybe a shove if they were overcharged. Conversations were stilted and short, reduced to small-talk or—eugh—networking. At first, he’d assumed it was a fault of the general demographic of mecha who went to the Science Academy (rich stuck-up towerlings and their miserable spawn), but his few forays into Iacon proper displayed the same behavior of the general public as well.
It was one of those things he’d never noticed until it had changed. And—sure, he didn’t go into it wanting to rub shoulders with any Iaconians, but the entire atmosphere ate away at his spirit, just a little bit.
Of course, none of that was relevant to the Starscream of current-day, besides the fact that such a sense of inconceivable isolation was beginning to plague him once more, since his departure from the Deceptions and conscription into the Autobots.
That was unusual, because it wasn’t like the Autobots were against socializing—he couldn’t walk five feet without running into some mushy heartfelt conversation or a big cuddle pile or whatever else Autobots did in their free time besides play with fleshies; nothing like the simpering, volatile Iaconians of eons past.
The only real similarity was, well, him, and the him-being-alone thing, in a new hostile environment without his trine, but now without even a shuttle-who-shall-not-be-named to fall back on.
He reflected on such woes while he stared at the ceiling of his hab, watching the seconds of the off-cycle tick by one after another. His helm throbbed in steady, unending pulses, and a cold ache wrapped around his struts. Some kind of horrid Autobot virus he was sure, making him miserable.
He was exhausted.
He couldn’t sleep.
. . .The trinebond was still blocked off.
—By his own choice, mind you! His existence was all the better without those sniveling traitors. They could go rust in the deepest parts of the Pit for all he cared.
. . .Though he couldn’t say he wouldn’t appreciate some excess frame heat. Starscream’s plating kept rattling, and it was only getting more frequent as the night went on. For a ship stuck halfway through a volcano, the Ark was terribly drafty.
He groaned and rolled over, wings sticking out of the blankets, flicking irritably. Stupid Autobot blankets never covering my stupid wings properly. How am I supposed to sleep like this?
He shuttered his optics hard, trying to force-initiate recharge. How hard could it be? Mecha recharged all the time. It should’ve been easy.
Starscream lay like that for another five minutes, wallowing in his own misery, until he couldn’t take it anymore. He threw the sheets off himself and crawled out of the berth, growling low in his engine.
He would go do. . . something else. Something that wasn’t lying around being useless and miserable. He was well within his rights to leave his hab during the off-cycle. . . though, it was one of those things that remained unsaid throughout his stay with the Autobots; technically he was allowed to go as he pleased within the bounds of his clearance, but the ‘if we catch you doing anything even mildly suspicious at any time, we will shoot you with glee’ was much implied. At least, by some select officers.
With light, though unsteady, steps Starscream left his hab and stalked the dim, quiet corridors of the Ark. The Autobots insisted on adapting the archaic day-night cycle the humans used, and as such the Ark’s shift rotations abided by whether the Earth’s orbital star was visible in the sky or not. When it wasn’t, the ship’s lights were lowered and shift crews were halved for the duration, allowing more of its soldiers to ‘sleep in’ or whatever.
It was a completely ridiculous thing to do that only made their army weaker, and if he’d known of such a practice while still in the Decepticons he would’ve planned every single raid around attacking them at night, but alas, he was now affiliated with said ridiculous Autobots, and simply had to deal with it.
There were upsides to the system, though. He knew exactly when there would be the least amount of nosy mecha getting in his way (and the dim lights made his processor ache less). That was almost certainly the reason the greater Autobot High Command didn’t want him out during those times, but whatever. He could do what he wanted. He wasn’t afraid of Prowl and his pathetic ‘one week of brig time’ punishments. The brig was a mercy on the Victory. A reward, even. Being in the brig meant Megatron couldn’t make you work.
Listening for pedsteps, Starscream wandered the halls aimlessly, unsure of what he wanted to do. He felt too slagged to do anything in the labs, but not so slagged that he wanted to waste his time in the medbay.
Mostly, he just wanted to stop looking at ugly orange walls. He decided to look for a small exit bay to stare out of.
Starscream’s assigned hab was situated lower in the Ark, and as such was within the large section of the ship buried under a mountain. None of the nearby windows or exit hatches were functional, so he had to make a small pilgrimage to find the nearest hole that looked out at anything that wasn’t solid rock.
As his helmache slowly morphed into a migraine, he wondered if it was worth it, but once he was sat on the inner ledge of a wide port window, he decided that it was.
A storm was rolling slowly over the desert, covering the sky in a deep indigo haze. Wind whipped and howled around the Ark, and rain pelted the thick port glass. Every so often, a bolt of incandescent, branching lightning leapt through the clouds, followed by booming thunderclaps.
The trinebond twinged, and Starscream rubbed his cockpit as he watched the storm, leaning against the edge of the sill.
Should’ve brought a blanket, he thought as a chill slipped through the seams of the port and crawled through his struts. The shivering hadn’t left him, and neither had the frame aches, but at least he had something to distract himself with.
He watched the storm travel over the Ark, clouds twisting themselves into new patterns every time he blinked. It was fascinating in a way, how quickly things on Earth changed. The planet was so small, and its organic nature made it volatile. Electric acid storms, arguably the most violent of weather phenomena they had on Cybertron, didn’t move even half as fast as Earthen thunderstorms.
Probably something to do with all the hydrogen oxide everywhere, he thought absently, blinks getting slower and longer as he sank deeper into the sill. Such a horrible, disgusting compound that is. . .
Machines may dream of electric sheep, but seekers dream of lightning storms and warm engines.
— ———— ⟣≺★≻⟢ ———— —
“Hey Screamer, enjoying the view?”
Of all the things to be woken up by, Jazz’s voice had to be one of the worst. It reminded him of tiny cells and long, long interrogations.
Snapping upright, Starscream zeroed in on the spy-bot’s location, talons twitching.
Jazz leant against the wall, trying so hard to look unbothered that, were it anyone who wasn’t the head of Autobot spec-ops, he would’ve believed him.
Though, and anyone who’d met him would agree, believing anything Jazz said at face-value was an exercise in stupidity.
“What?” Starscream snapped, impatient when Jazz forewent a follow-up statement. He didn’t need to guess what he was in trouble for. . . but he didn’t want to guess, either. “Is recharging illegal now?”
Jazz took his sweet time responding, tilting his helm with a quirk of his lips. With the visor, he could never be sure what he was looking at.
“No one said it was, mech. Hold your horses.” What the frag is a horse? “I’m just curious as to why you’re doing your recharging on a window sill instead of your perfectly good berth, that’s all.”
‘Perfectly good’ my aft—the thing’s barely wide enough for my chassis, let alone my wings. The floor would be easier on my struts, if only I had the padding.
Starscream kept these complaints unvoiced. He was still figuring out how to answer Jazz’s question without sounding stupid, pathetic, suspicious, or all three at once. A difficult feat for someone such as himself.
So, he simply didn’t answer.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business, personally,” Starscream snapped, aching wings tilted back. The cold of the window had seeped into them and made them stiff.
Jazz’s visor flashed and he opened his intake as though to speak, but paused. Eventually, he finally said, “Well, I suppose it isn’t, is it?”
That was strange. Something not being Jazz’s business? Unheard of.
“No, it isn’t. . .” Where was the catch?
With a showy flair, Jazz threw his arms over his helm in a long stretch, stifling a yawn. “Tell me anyway, perhaps?” He smiled almost sheepishly. “What can I say? I’m nosy.”
Starscream scoffed and turned away. “You can say that again. . .”
The conversation—if you could even call it that—died off, neither mech willing to give any ground. Starscream stayed coiled tight by the window while Jazz continued to hover like a gnat. At the very least, the rain provided a pleasant backdrop of noise to drown the awkwardness out with.
After seven and a half minutes, Starscream cracked and bit out, “If you were lying about me not being in trouble for this, then just come out with it already.”
“Do you think you’re in trouble?”
Primus I hate him. “Does it matter? I’d be sent to the brig either way.”
Jazz gave him an odd look, shaking his helm slightly. “I feel like we’re talking about different things here, mech.”
And, really, what was he supposed to say to that?
The conversation lapsed once more. They watched the storm beat restlessly against the Ark, unyielding to the sturdier foreign materials. He wondered how the liquid water would affect other components of Cybertron, besides the carefully curated, vacuum-safe metal alloys that made up their spacecraft. Cybertron didn’t have liquid water—not in any meaningful quantities, at least; Scant samples carried to the planet by stray meteorites. Would it be able to weather the surface of Cybertron like the acid did, if given enough time?
It certainly did on this planet, creating the raging rivers and sheer valleys he often flew over.
He didn’t know why the thought struck him so hard.
He also didn’t know why Jazz was still just standing there.
“If you’re not throwing me in the brig or telling me off, then why are you still here?”
Infuriatingly, Jazz only shrugged. “Again, I’m nosy.” Then, he inclined his helm towards the window, though never turning away from him. “And I have to say, the weather here is interesting to look at, that’s for sure.”
“Isn’t it?” Starscream muttered absently, letting his helm clink against the glass. Clearly, he wouldn’t be getting rid of the scraplet any time soon.
And so they lapsed back into a delicate silence, only broken by the occasional clap of thunder.
Starscream should’ve been more worried about appearing so vulnerable in front of the other, but he’d found himself lacking in cares lately. The company could’ve been worse, admittedly. Despite how often he’d been ‘interrogated’ by Jazz (and vice-versa, if he were honest), he was not the most annoying Autobot to abide (that award was a three-way tie between Ironhide, Red-Alert, and Prowl). At the very least, Jazz was physically capable of being quiet.
“How long have you been out here, anyway?”
Maybe not.
“Does it matter, or are you just being ‘nosy’ again?”
“Ha—the latter.”
Starscream checked his chrono out of pure curiosity—he hadn’t been paying attention to stupid things like time.
‘03:47:09 local time’. About five Earth hours since leaving his hab.
“You don’t need to know that,” he answered decidedly.
“You’re right,” Jazz hummed, “I don’t.” At that, he shook himself and pushed off the wall, continuing down the hall as though he’d never stopped. “Make sure to get some recharge, ‘Scream. Ratchet gets real pressed about skipped recharge cycles.”
Starscream didn’t even look up. “Threatening to tell on me to the medic? I’d expect nothing less from a professional tattle-tale.”
Jazz laughed, waving him off. “All the same, Starscream.”
Soon, the corridor was silent, free of any spark besides his own.
Dutifully, Starscream returned his full attention to the window and the storm raging on beyond it. It showed no signs of slowing down—conversely, it seemed to be reaching its apex.
I wonder, he mulled, optics following the tiny drops of water as they hit the glass and trailed onto the sill, over and over again, how long it would take for such storms to rend this mountain to sea-level dust. Five vorns? Six? If that. Such a weak planet. A victim of its own composition.
It was funny, in a way.
Starscream settled deeper into the window shelf with an involuntary chirr, shutters heavy. He scratched lightly over the unceasing ache beneath his chestplates.
Might as well recharge here. It’s not as though I’m getting much rest either way.
He drifted into a shallow, restless sleep, and the storm toiled on.